


Bull

by witchsoup



Series: Catching Flies [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, F/M, Mention of Minor Character Suicide, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 10:43:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11667501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchsoup/pseuds/witchsoup
Summary: If you want to look at her, you have to look at the wall behind: covered in an obnoxious number of frames. Her diploma from Cambridge sits at eye level. The last page of her dissertation, covered almost entirely in red pen and featuring an emphatic declaration of her genius, sits to the left. Hermione is fond of reminding him which university makes up the majority of the termOxbridge.





	Bull

**Author's Note:**

> Here be twists.

It's pitch black outside, and Draco catches glimpses of himself reflected in the glass walls of empty offices, a thick file clenched between two white-knuckled hands.

The clock read _something_ with a six on the front when he entered the office this morning, scowling at the gargantuan Christmas tree in the foyer. When the only chance you get to see the sun is a one o'clock sushi run, you stop paying attention to exactly when you clock in. He'd been picking apart a sub par salmon skin roll when Astoria had knocked on his door. His ire wasn't directed at her. It's always useful not to let the underlings know that, though.

Smelling her expensive perfume and admiring the petrified look on her face did nothing to soften the blow of her revelation.

Draco smoothes his hair in the lift, _going up,_ though it makes him sick. There's no arguing with her, quite literally: Hermione Granger is a truly excellent lawyer. That's why he's going to her with this, something he could never even have considered two years ago. It would be nice, though, if she wasn't such a bitch.

It would be even nicer if she hadn't seen him naked. She seemed to struggle to take him seriously after that.

She's still here, of course. He's not sure she ever actually leaves.

"What do you want, Malfoy? I'm busy." Granger doesn't even look up from her desk. "I thought I saw you leaving at five, anyway."

He strides across the room, making a point to walk straight across her minimalist white rug rather than around it. The configuration of her office makes no sense. Unless you know what it is to be Hermione Granger. Instead of sitting in front of the window like every other partner of her position, of her pay grade, she sits in front of the wall. His office is comparatively minuscule.

If you want to look at her, you have to look at the wall behind: covered in an obnoxious number of frames. Her diploma from Cambridge sits at eye level. The last page of her dissertation, covered almost entirely in red pen and featuring an emphatic declaration of her genius, sits to the left. Hermione is fond of reminding him which university makes up the majority of the term _Oxbridge._

"I needed coffee."

She snorts, reaching to grab a heavy folder from the corner of her desk and slamming it down in front of her, before flicking through the pages.

"Since when do you get your own coffee? You have an assistant for that. Or better yet," says Granger, scrunching her nose. "You have Astoria."

Astoria was after Granger, before Cho Chang.

"She's proven particularly useful today." He sighs. "Please, Granger. Come and sit down."

Looking up and rounding her desk, she seems surprised at his serious tone of voice. Her stern tone is at odds with her bare feet. Granger stopped wearing shoes in her office the day they moved her above the fourteenth floor.

"What have you done?" Hermione pulls the file on the coffee table towards her. "This is one of the Fortescue files. It's open and shut. We shouldn't even really be dealing with this, it's a favour to the family really." Her eyes track across the page. "They were one of our first clients, you know. Riddle actually went to the funeral."

Draco leans forward, resting his forehead against clasped hands. When he first realized what was going on, the waves of nausea had started.

"Look at page three hundred and ninety-four."

"A corporation tried to buy the London flagship shop. We barely even had to discuss it with Mr Fortescue, he would never even consider it-"

"You weren't here when they first tried to buy it. It's happened several times over the last five years, and-"

"What does that have to do with anything? It's a successful chain, there's bound to be a lot of interest."

He pulls a slip of paper from the back of the file.

"I looked into the companies. Shells, all of them. Now Fortescue is dead, and we're set to make a deal with yet another faceless board."

Hermione sits back, looking disbelieving. 

"I don't know what you're getting at, Draco, but I really don't have time to listen to this."

Tapping his index finger on the page, he takes a deep breath.

"Two years ago, my father was implicated for fraud-"

"Draco," she begins, voice soft.

"-and we weathered that storm. My name is still on the door, but my father is in the _ground_ because of it. He gave his life to this place."

"Shame does terrible things to people-"

"He would never have left us at the mercy of that fucking _snake._ He would never have left me to beg and scrape at Riddle's feet so that his legacy wouldn't be destroyed."

Draco flips the sheet over, shoving it towards her.

"Look at the map. Look at the surrounding buildings, and then look at this."

There's a moment of silence as Hermione's frown grows deeper.

"He was keeping double books. Drugs, you think?"

He shrugs.

"All I know is, now he's dead. I may be at the bottom of the pecking order, but this isn't the kind of work you give to just anyone. Riddle asked me to take care of it _personally."_

Pushing up from her seat, Hermione wraps her cardigan more firmly around herself and wanders over to the window, eyes trained in the direction of Fortescue's first ever premises. Unable to sit still, Draco follows. He blocks her view, tugging at her hands until they're clasped in both of his.

His voice is soft, tentative, when he says, "It's a pattern. Enough of a pattern to damage his reputation. I want to take him down."

Looking up at him with a fearful expression, Hermione wrenches her hands away, crossing her arms.

"You think our boss is a murderer, and all you care about is getting a bigger office? You're _disgusting-"_

"I want us to take him down together."

"There's no such thing as together when it comes to us, Draco. You certainly proved that."

"I've regretted it every day since."

She scoffs.

"I'm sure. The constant stream of women in and out of your flat was, what?"

"A mistake."

"You're only saying this because you need me."

"Exactly, couldn't have said it better myself," he finishes, smirking.

"You need me to improve your image. Not only are you _far_ too young to be taking on Riddle's job, but you're utterly immoral, not to mention reckless and selfish," spits Hermione.

"Just like Riddle. Only difference is, I don't kill people."

She sighs.

"We can do it, together. You're right, I do need you. But you need me too. Do you really think they're ever going to let you have real power if you don't take it?"

His voice is seductive when he pulls on her shoulder, turning her to face the window and standing at her back.

"Wouldn't you like this city on a silver platter?" he whispers in her ear.

Draco bends to press a kiss to the side of her neck, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her to face him. He tips her head up and leans closer until their lips are almost touching.

"What do you say, Granger? Ready to make them all kiss the ring?"

"Yes," she breathes, and he closes the gap between their bodies and kisses her, clutching her to him. When a soft moan escapes her, he backs away, picking up the file.

"Expect my call, Miss Granger."

As he makes his way out of the building, a smug smile stretches across his face.

* * *

Hermione pushes her hair out of her face, damp with sweat and obscuring her vision.

“I think we need to talk about Malfoy.”

Tom sits up. He leans into her until their lips almost touch, and closes his eyes for a moment.

“Which one?” he sighs.

“The living one.”

His hands go from the mattress to her spine, pressing Hermione more fully against him. He slowly strokes along her spine before resting his chin on her shoulder.

“The family disappointment?”

She snorts, reaching over to grab the television remote out of Tom’s hand before he can turn on the news, and fixes him with a glare.

Obtrusively bright sunshine streams in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and though the weather forecast is for rain through the night, it's still bright and fresh outside. Unlike most of its inhabitants, Tom fervently believes his city looks better in the rain. Sunshine is off-brand, though _sunglasses_ are not.

“I am speaking to you- no. You don't need to watch the news, you know exactly how it went- no-”

Grabbing her wrists, Tom throws his weight to the side, so that she ends up pinned beneath him. In her struggle to free herself, Hermione manages to knock over the glass of wine on the bedside table, such that it seeps into the hotel stationery and leaves her phone to be slowly engulfed by the spreading liquid.

“I know Severus called to confirm last night, I heard your phone ring. Karkaroff’s _dead,_ so-”

“It’s so much more satisfying to hear the way they tell it. Snape has no appreciation for drama.”

Hermione remains silent, staring up at him with a blank expression. When he lowers his head for a kiss, she’s unresponsive.

“I’ll buy you a new phone. You were saying? Draco,” he reminds her.

“He was observant enough to notice the pattern in the Fortescue files,” Hermione says.

“That's more than you expected-”

“Then again, he wasn’t astute enough to notice the holes I left behind when I removed the more… concrete evidence.” Her eyes shine as Tom’s jaw clicks audibly shut. “He wants me on his team when he takes you on,” she finishes, face the picture of innocence.

Tom stretches across her, pinning her to the mattress, and fishes her phone out of the puddle of Lafite, giving it a shake before lifting it to his ear.

Droplets of deep red land on the snowy sheets and instantly spread.

“Bella. Yes, who else? I want you to give Fenrir your nephew’s address, as of ten minutes ago.” He listens for a moment, then frowns. “Then buy her some consolatory flowers. Or a peacock. She likes those, doesn't she?”

Bellatrix’s reply is cut short when Tom throws the phone against the glass doors. It lands, screen cracked and inky black, and skids under the wardrobe.

“Narcissa will be perfectly fine.” He reaches blindly for her hand, pulling her to his side. “Now, what’s the channel number for Sky News?”


End file.
